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flwjdk · 14 days

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Be Okay

Summary: Tybalt practices for his first piano recital in seven years, and comes to realize what makes it much more emotionally challenging than it needs to be. At least there’s someone to help him pick up the pieces this time.

Warnings: None

Pairings: (Established) Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty

Word Count: 3.2k

Author’s Note: okay after hurting them so much they get to be cute together are you happy???!!!! although i’d say it’s more hurt/comfort for tybalt, but worry not mercutio will also get his hurt/comfort moment soon! also tybby is a bit ✨softer✨ here since they’re already dating, granted idk how long they’ve been dating but! i tried to keep a lot of his attitude just y’know…less outright mean since they’re bfs and not enemies here 😭 also i will probs publish the mercutio hurt/comfort piece later this week but after that i’m gonna take a short break cause y’all i have less than a month of this semester left and the struggle is REAL!!!! i’ve got so much shit due every week oml! also yes vendetta has not been forgotten about, but it’s a bigger piece so it’s gonna take some time to plan out. i don’t know if these one shots are “in” the vendetta universe so to say, but we’ll see!

In exactly one month and one week, Tybalt Capp would have his first piano recital since his mother died. The last time he’d performed on a stage, in front of an audience, had been seven years ago. He was on the cusp of 19 years old now, and the last time had been about three months before the fire. For seven years, he wasn’t quite ready to face another audience—to look out into the crowd and not see his mother’s smile staring back at him. But he wanted to perform on that stage one last time before he was set to graduate for her.

He was performing two pieces, Nocturne No. 8 by Chopin and Liebestraum No. 3 by Liszt. Chopin was his mother’s favorite composer, and Nocturne No. 8 was her favorite work of his. There was no question about whether he wanted to perform it in her memory; it was only right for him to do so. His second piece was a personal choice, as Liszt, on the other hand, was his favorite composer. He thought about performing La Campanella as it had been burned in his brain from having to perform it in front of his grandfather and his associates, but he wanted to give himself a challenge and learn a brand new piece.

Liebestraum was also a considerably romantic piece, the title directly translating to Love Dream. He initially told himself that it would fit with the theme of Nocturne No. 8, as that was the song that led his parents together. However, it would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been feeling particularly…mushy lately.

He wasn’t sure if he would call Mercutio Monty his boyfriend; it seemed like an oversimplification. They also hadn’t exactly talked about things such as labels or terms, but Tybalt didn’t mind much either way. It wouldn’t change anything about what or how they were anyway.

Mercutio didn’t come to the Capp manor often, but it had nothing to do with whether or not Tybalt wanted him there. Patrizio and Isabella catching Tybalt at the Monty ranch would likely be quite bad, but Grandfather catching Mercutio at the Capp manor? All hell would break loose.

Grandfather was out of town for a business conference, though, and his sisters were having a sleepover at Miranda’s home. He knew he needed to practice for his recital, but being in a secret relationship due to the fact that your families hate each other has taught Tybalt that every potential moment should be taken advantage of. Besides, Mercutio seemed quite enthusiastic about watching Tybalt play the piano. He did ask to be serenaded, though, which Tybalt refused.

He let the final notes ring out, cursing himself for the minor mistake he had made prior. “Sounds just as good the sixth time,” Mercutio teased—sitting in a backward dining chair he had pulled up to the piano. He rested his chin on his folded arms, placed on top of the back of the chair.

“Measure 51 was sloppy,” Tybalt commented with a slight huff, flipping over the sheet music to review as he furrowed his brow. He could practically hear his grandfather commenting on all the tiny mistakes he’d made in his head despite his absence. “I’ve done better before. I need to iron out the mistakes,” He grumbled as he grabbed his pen from the piano desk—circling measure 51 for future reference.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mercutio answered, shrugging his shoulders. “If you keep looking for mistakes, you’re just going to make more,” He added, “Brute forcing it will just burn you out.”

There was nothing he hated more than Mercutio being right, so much so that verbally admitting he was right was a difficult challenge. Tybalt was trying, though, choosing to silently put aside the sheet music for Chopin and replacing it with Liszt. It earned a small smirk from Mercutio that was answered with a scowl from Tybalt.

He took his time to look over the sheet music before even pressing on a single key. It wasn’t the most challenging piece he’d ever played, but it wouldn’t be a walk in the park either. Tybalt took a deep breath in before exhaling and playing the initial few notes. It was a ritual for him, an attempt to release all of the expectations and pressure—choosing to let the music take over instead. Did it work? Not very often, but it was nice to try.

He hadn’t practiced his recital performance in front of his grandfather, not after an argument between Juliette and their grandfather a few weeks prior. It wasn’t often that his sisters witnessed his piano practice, but Juliette just so happened to be doing her homework in the living room. She must’ve been watching his hands as he ceased for his grandfather to point out every little mistake he’d made—and much to both of their surprise, Juliette yelled at Grandfather. It was rare for any of them to stand up to him. For being quite the hothead typically, Tybalt had never once raised his voice at his grandfather.

Juliette said that Tybalt needed a break, as they’d been going for 3 hours at that point—repeating the same section of the same piece over and over. She pointed out his shaking hands, his tired eyes, and the fact he looked as if he was on the verge of breaking to pieces. When they were alone, Juliette suggested Tybalt practice independently for a while—to be free of their grandfather’s criticism.

But he wondered if he would ever be able to get better without him watching over his shoulder like a hawk, pinpointing every tiny mistake he made throughout. Much of Tybalt’s determination and improvement came from wanting to make his grandfather proud, wanting to prove to him that he could be the best and that he was worth something to their family. After a performance, ranging from child to teenager, from stage to party, Tybalt always sought out his grandfather’s face first. He wanted to see just a hint of a smile, a quirk of his lips, anything that would show that he was satisfied.

His eyes stared down at his fingers intently, watching as they danced around the keys. It was similar to how he would watch his mother as a child. Her playing was always so elegant, so gentle—something that never quite came naturally to Tybalt. Tybalt played the piano as if it were anger management, freeing all of the negative emotions that weighed heavy on his mind. It was brilliant for pieces such as the 3rd movement of Moonlight Sonata or Allegro Barbaro, but awkward when attempting to play things romantic and soft—another two adjectives that did not exactly align with Tybalt.

He was trying, though; he was really trying. He was trying not to be so hardened, so closed off, so defensive. Every single day, he remembered his grandfather’s speech about the dangers and destruction of love, and every single day, he started to feel as if it was the truth. The question remained if he would prefer to protect himself from the pain or risk it all for the happiness his mother spoke of.

Although perhaps the true question was if he deserved to love and be loved at all. He’d ruthlessly pushed away anyone who ever got close, no matter who they were. If they ever tried to pry, he would hurl insults until they no longer held any interest. He was the antithesis of everything his mother hoped for him to be, in favor of trying to fit his grandfather’s expectations.

Good people were the ones who deserved love, like his mother and father, who were willing to stand against his grandparents to fight for their love. Like his sisters, who stand proud for their family but would never allow it to overtake their own morals and beliefs. Like Mercutio, who seemed to believe that his purpose in life was to make everybody around him happy—he deserved to be happy himself.

It felt like no matter what he did, he was always going to be disappointing someone. His grandfather, his sisters, the memory of his parents—he would never be as great as he wanted to be for them.

There wasn’t a missed note, a stuttered section, a wrong key, not a single thing out of place. But none of it felt right. The way he was playing, the sound, everything was off. He stopped in his tracks, a half note playing out before complete silence began to smother the room. His eyes wandered down to his lap as his hands left the keys, his fists tightly clenching—the stinging feeling bringing a strange relief.

He could imagine the disappointing stare from his grandfather already, not a word or piece of criticism leaving his lips. If it wasn’t the minor mistakes to be pointed out, it was always the feeling. It was always the fact that he didn’t believe Tybalt understood the song. There was always something, something that always proved he’d never meet expectations.

He didn’t notice any movement or the presence of another person until he felt two hands loosely wrap around his wrists, turning them face up. “How have you not stabbed your palms yet?” Mercutio said quietly as he gently pried open his clenched fists, Tybalt staring down at the indents of his fingernails left dead center in the palm of his hand.

Another one of his horrible habits threatened to be released, insisting to Mercutio that he was very much fine and continued to play. He didn’t want to lie, though, but he wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t leave him crumbling.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet the other man’s eyes, pursing his lips and staring down at his resting hands. “I feel like I’m failing her,” Tybalt murmured, glancing over to notice the raised eyebrow from Mercutio. “My mother,” He clarified, “She never wanted me to fall into…this, like needing my grandfather’s approval every damn second, inheriting that rage and vengefulness from the feud, refusing to be weak.” He couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh he let out, “I’m doing this for her, but I’m honestly not quite sure if she would be proud of me today anyway.”

A pair of hands cupped his cheeks and gently turned his head, and there was no avoiding his gaze anymore. His tired, stormy eyes met warm brown that were filled with concern and a sense of worry. Rarely did anyone look worried for Tybalt; they often just looked at him with anger, neutrality, or worse—pity. “Don’t start,” Mercutio said with a frown, “You don’t wanna go down that rabbit hole, trust me…it fucking sucks.”

He supposed no one could better understand him than Mercutio, having also lost both of his parents quite soon after Tybalt. Being the heir or heiress is probably difficult. Tybalt would never deny that—but he had a feeling that being the oldest was harder. They were both expected to be the protectors, to dutifully watch over their younger siblings without a single crack. They had to live up to the expectations of their grandparents while also being the ones to remember most the horrid loss that led them there in the first place.

They both had to exist solely for a family that would discard them once the heir took over.

“Look, I didn’t really know your mom that well,” Mercutio admitted quietly. Tybalt could remember the few occasions that they had met, but they were quite a long time ago. The first time Mercutio met his mother, he’d presented her with a daisy he had just plucked from the ground—telling her the scientific name Bellis perennis, although mispronounced horribly. Still, it was certainly impressive that an eight-year-old remembered the name at all. “But I do know that she loved you a lot,” He continued, “And she definitely would’ve been proud of you, and I mean…I can say for certain that I’m proud of you, does that count for anything?”

His cheeks began to heat up in surprise, unsure of how to respond. Truthfully, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had directly said they were proud of him. Maybe his grandfather would occasionally give him a hum and a nod of approval, but that wasn’t the same as hearing it directly. “I suppose it does…yes,” He confessed. Tybalt was excellent at stringing together creative yet eloquent insults, but romance and niceties didn’t come easy—even simple words such as ‘thank you’ were a struggle for him.

Mercutio hummed as he slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer to him. “And you don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to,” He added, “I don’t think your mom would want you to do something only for her sake.” He had a good point; his mother never liked forcing him into things he wasn’t interested in doing. But there was just…a part of him that—

“I want to do this,” Tybalt assured with a slight nod, “I like playing, I like performing…I just really do not enjoy the pressure from my grandfather, and I do not enjoy looking for his face in the crowd after a performance only to see it unchanged.” He could feel a kiss placed on the top of his head, along with a slow nod. Tybalt still wasn’t used to physical affection, but he’d gotten better at not suddenly jolting or tensing up with even just the slightest brush of fingertips against his skin.

His family was never known for their affection. Tybalt couldn’t even remember the last time he’d hugged his grandfather or his sisters. Truthfully, before Mercutio—he probably hadn’t hugged anyone since his parents died. Meanwhile, physical affection seemed to be a staple of the Monty family. Mercutio and Romeo never shied away from putting an arm around a friend’s shoulder, and Viola could usually be seen sitting on her friend’s lap or even kissing their cheeks. It was a far cry from the Capp family, truthfully.

“I’ll be there then,” Mercutio offered with a smirk, “I’ll even force everyone to give you a standing ovation and clap so loud you’ll know exactly where I am in the crowd without even having to look.” Most people would think that to be hyperbole, but Tybalt had a feeling he was being dead serious.

“Your grandparents might actually have you hung, drawn, and quartered if they found out you were sneaking out to go see your secret boyfriend from the rival family perform at a piano recital,” Tybalt commented, “I think they’d find that worse than simply sneaking out to make out somewhere in a field.”

Mercutio laughed, and Tybalt could maybe feel a bit of a weight lifted from his shoulders—metaphorically, of course. “So two things,” He began, “First, if you wanna do that again after your piano recital, I’d totally be down, second—we’re boyfriends now?” He sounded so smug once he reached that second point, and Tybalt put two fingers to the other man’s cheek, shoving away his face.

“Don’t get cocky about it,” Tybalt warned, although he imagined that advice would fall on deaf ears.

“I’m gonna be so cocky about it,” Mercutio teased in return.

He rolled his eyes with a groan, “I’d expect nothing less from you, to be quite honest.” Their journey to where they stood now had been nothing less than chaotic, although he supposed that was typical for Veronaville. They were friends and crushes as children, enemies as teenagers, and this on the brink of young adulthood. Admittedly, he was still afraid to call it love. It was all his mother ever wanted for him, but it was still a very terrifying thought. He’d get there, though, one day.

“You wanna try again?” Mercutio asked as he looked towards the sheet music still placed on the piano desk. “Or take a break?” He continued, his eyes glancing back at Tybalt. Tybalt really couldn’t help how he practically slumped down on the bench, his head resting on Mercutio’s shoulder. He felt utterly drained at that point, both emotionally and physically. While he would typically keep playing until he played perfectly, every part of his body screamed for a break.

“Break,” He murmured decisively. He could always pick it up again tomorrow, and his grandfather wouldn’t be back for another few days, so there was ample time to practice without him. Mercutio would probably still be there the next morning, anyway. He didn’t necessarily need him to be there to play, but it sure did feel nice to have someone there who actually enjoyed his playing.

Mercutio nodded in response before giving Tybalt a mischievous grin, “How about I make dinner and then kick your ass in Smash?” His delusion was clearly admirable; Tybalt had to give him that.

“You’re god awful at Smash,” Tybalt pointed out as he straightened back out, “You’ve been playing Luigi for a decade, and I still beat you every single time.” He didn’t grow up playing video games. He only really began about a few months ago at the suggestion of Mercutio. Unfortunately for him, Tybalt was obviously much better at all of the games the other man grew up playing.

“Hey, I let you win because I was trying to get you to like me,” Mercutio defended, but Tybalt simply brushed him off with a roll of his eyes.

“Why would I swoon at you being terrible at video games?” Tybalt retorted, “You really need to work on your methods of seduction.” Admittedly, Tybalt initially thought that Mercutio was actually letting him win the first few times they played together. But Tybalt very quickly realized that Mercutio was actually just that bad at Smash. Great at Mario Kart, though.

Mercutio moved his hand down to his waist, tugging him closer. “Did it or did it not work though?” He teased—and of course, this ended up causing a debate about whether or not his ‘plan’ had worked. Mercutio insisted that what he was saying was totally true, while Tybalt said that any amount of seduction was in spite of his horrid Smash gameplay. They definitely ‘argued’ about it for far too long, as they’d both forgotten about the plan about dinner and video games until about 10 PM.

Both of them ended up staying up well past 2 in the morning, the time having gone by in a flash. Although admittedly, they didn’t fall asleep til at least 3:30. Apparently, they hadn’t really thought about the fact that Tybalt had a twin bed, and trying to find a comfortable way to sleep might as well have been like playing the world’s most brutal game of Tetris.

They slept on his bedroom floor instead, and for the first time in a long while—Tybalt thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.

SECRET ENDING AUTHOR’S NOTE: would y’all like a post-recital one shot? 😁 lemme knaur

#i reread this a couple of times and RAAAGHHH it still gets me every time.#mercutio being touchy is so ?!?/!?1!?3!2772!’ AAAAAAAAAAAAAA #theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly theyre silly #pianist tybalt save me pianist tybalt #ts2 #veronaville #mercutio monty #tybalt capp #tycutio

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